Page 40 of His Unruly Duchess
“Go on…” she urged when he did not speak.
“There is a small gathering this evening,” he said, concentrating on the cat so he did not have to hold Caroline’s gaze. “Not quite a ball, but larger than a dinner party. An evening soirée of sorts to whet our appetites for the London Season, or so the invitation said.”
He could almost feel Caroline’s disappointment. Nevertheless, he continued, putting on a teasing tone, “I realize it is unseemly of me to ask a lady to ready herself in fewer than two hours, but if you think it can be done, we ought to attend.”
“Do I know the host?” she asked, her voice too tight in its brightness.
“I doubt it,” he replied. “He is a friend from Eton, but I hear his wife is an affable sort. They are a happy result of my sister’s romantic meddling, in truth.”
He did not add that the friend in question might be the one in possession of Caroline’s future residence: a pleasant country house that was not even an hour’s journey from Westyork, situating her perfectly for visits with friends and family.
Caroline straightened up. “Will Anna be there?”
“I do not know,” Max admitted. “Perhaps.”
Caroline looked off toward the shadow of the hallway where Mrs. Whitlock had tucked herself away, giving the couple some privacy. “Mrs. Whitlock, might you fetch Lila so that we can begin my transformation?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” came an embarrassed voice from the corridor.
“I shall see you in two hours,” Caroline said to her husband, a look of determination upon her face.
Max longed to brush back the lock of dark hair that had fallen loose from her bonnet, but he clenched his hand to stop himself. He needed to be more careful of his actions, for though their honeymoon had eventually been a pleasant month, he could not be the husband she deserved in the longer term. He was toobusy, too absent, too concerned with his work, and much too jaded to be what a vivacious young wife needed.
I will not be your shackles, Caro. You will have the freedom you were promised.
“We do not have to if you still feel unwell from the journey,” he said, in case she was only agreeing because she thought she should.
But she shook her head. “Nonsense. I am perfectly well, and if we are to show society that we are hopelessly in love, it must start with a most astonishing gown.” She smiled, but it did not reach her beautiful, honey-hazel eyes. “I have just the one. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She set off up the curving staircase, only to halt as Max called out, “Do you know where you are going?”
“A good point, well made,” Caroline replied with a stiff chuckle.
“Would you like me to show you to your bedchamber? It adjoins mine,” he said, unable to stop his mind from drifting back to the Grayling Ball, and the sight of her standing in his guest room.
If he had known then that they would be married, he wondered how he would have behaved. Would he have been kinder? Would he have been envious that she had gone there to speak with someone else? Would he have realized then just how beautifulshe was, just how wonderful she was, instead of seeing her as a nuisance?
“No, thank you,” Caroline replied. “Mrs. Whitlock can show me.”
The housekeeper shot out of the hallway and followed her up the stairs, the two women disappearing around the upward bend of the staircase and out of sight.
Max paced the entrance hall, shoes scuffing on the tile, as he checked his pocket watch for the thousandth time. For a moment, he was transported back to the church, waiting for the brother who had no intention of turning up.
Is this what I would have felt like if I had known that day was my wedding day?
His chest was winched tight with nerves, his heart beating unsteadily, his stomach churning, making sitting still an impossible task. He had tried but had jumped up two seconds later, resuming his pacing, splitting his watchful gaze between the staircase and his pocket watch.
A floorboard creaked above, and Max’s attention shot toward the stairs.
He waited with bated breath as his wife descended, escorted by a rather gleeful-looking Mrs. Whitlock.
But he was utterly breathless by the time Caroline appeared on the last stretch of steps, facing him as she continued her descent. She might have been a Spanish queen, in a gown of garnet red, with rubies at her throat and a thin diadem of gold filigree in her raven dark hair; the locks woven around the golden band. A red rose, made of velvet to weather every season, was fastened into the braided bun atop her head.
Against that bold red, her skin glowed, her complexion like peaches and cream, her eyes gleaming with confidence, while her lips seemed a shade darker than usual as if she had bitten them into blushing.
Max doubted he had ever seen anyone more beautiful, more ethereal, more enchanting than the woman approaching him. The woman who, quite by accident, was also his wife.
“Twenty minutes late,” Caroline said with laughter in her voice. “That is assuredly the fastest I have ever dressed and prepared for an evening soirée of any kind.”
